


Consolations and Constellations

by xRaevyn



Category: Little Witch Academia
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xRaevyn/pseuds/xRaevyn
Summary: Another Years Later AU fic! How Chariot and Croix spend their nights after coming back together.





	Consolations and Constellations

I curled around Chariot and as she buckled into me, I remembered the nights we spent together as teenagers, young and in love, but now we were older, a bit more damaged, but still just as giddy. I trailed my fingers down her side longingly and let out a satisfactory sigh as she exhaled a breath I didn’t know she was holding, even in the stillness that had settled between us like dust, we were still just as in tuned to each other as ever, synchronized by the caged flutter of heartbeats in succession; we were so entangled in one another it was hard to tell where her warmth ended and my warmth began. I sat up slightly, shifting to pepper her in kisses, down her cheek, up her jaw, down her neck, and she giggled more with each peck; I stopped when I felt Chariot’s pulse against my lips and she pulled away from me, if only to roll over, and I was grateful because I was tired of living in a face-full of hair; I was more grateful because of the view, the new shades of crimson that greeted me in warm pools. I tucked her hair behind her ear and let myself linger there a moment more before my hand trailed her jaw and I brought our lips together. It was soft, slow, but not painfully so, and as we parted I couldn’t help but catch her gaze and smile. I didn’t have to say anything as we laid there, naked, exposed to the world, and exposed to each other, though she was my world and knew it. She knew. And I knew. And that was all that mattered.

I worried sometimes that I had no sense of self other than her, and that when she and I blended together like two colors colliding on canvas, we bled into one another to become inseparable, and my fear resided in the inability to find myself as I began to become more and more lost in her. I felt as if every night we fell into the same routines, and every night, while she held the hand that cannot feel, I tried my damnedest not to cry. The progression of days and nights often felt like a streaking pattern, like shooting stars across the night sky, and as we accelerated through space and time together, we had become more and more intertwined, in love and in love with being in love, infatuated like birds stuffed with millet, spoiled on one another.

On the nights where I felt the most vulnerable is where I found myself thrusted into her, tossing myself and my insecurities at her, caught by her every single time, captured in her arms, her smile, her gaze. We would lay together, find new rhythms, and perform a balancing act that became more and more thrilling and exciting the longer we beat against each other, and when we ended we would end in sweat, and heat, and blood, and bruise, bones nearly ground to marrow against one another, and we collapsed in heaps of jelly-like-flesh, unable to move for minutes at a time. She has often left her marks on me in the form of teeth, bruises that litter my pale complexion, forming their own reverse constellations. She often liked to drape herself over me, and kiss my battle wounds in apology. I told her of how every one looks like its own nebula, and she agreed, though she still felt the weight of guilt. But more often than not, I was the one who walked away with the heavier heart, however, because regardless of how many marks she might have left on my skin, I was always the one drawing blood.

Chariot has always worn her heart on her sleeve, so bleeding externally is nothing new to her. These claw marks against her back, my desperate need to seep into her, to feel something with this cursed hand, that leaves her in fits of pain raked against her skin, mistaken for pleasure. She bears them, proudly, even, and allows me to sink my claw-like nails into her flesh repeatedly like a cat kneading. She grits her teeth, bares the pain, wears the scars I inflict with a sense of pride, and meanwhile I am the one who left all their bleeding beneath the skin. That’s how things have always been with me. She knows this. I know this. And yet we continue on in this mutually destructive carnivorous joyride, a disorienting, dazzling experience.

But in that moment, the moment after courtship, the moment after we took pleasure in inflicting pain, in taking the pain, in sharing the pain, we longed to be something even grater; and as I watched Chariot’s eyes, the once childish shimmer was a spark that had evolved to such a voluminous, intense fire, lapping up everyone that made eye-contact in the same way a fire makes its way from rooftop to rooftop among cityscapes, in leaps and bounds, I felt this overwhelming sense of globus: when our eyes met, every time, my heart leaped from my chest to my throat and back down again in a single, solitary thump, and I was so disoriented I had to close my eyes and swallow, hard, this almost cancerous lump that seemed to form, just to find the courage to speak; and even still, as I worked up this courage that I thought would never come, Chariot was patient as ever, ceaselessly content in the silence that surrounded us, suffocated us like the love we had smothered each other in, and through the silence, susurrus severed, like the kind of sorcery only two witches could brew, and I murmured, as quietly as my heart felt when it beat against my ear drums, sweet nothings, speaking to her things that she knew, that I knew that she knew, that needn’t be said because she knew, and because I knew that she knew, but were said regardless, because that is what love is: the act of doing things not out of necessity, but desire, and never had I ever once desired anyone as much as I desired Chariot Du Nord.

A new stillness found us, after I had spoken, and her smile shifted from a tired, loving tug at the corner of her mouth to a teeth-baring, obnoxious grin. I couldn’t help but be reminded of when we were kids again, and I found myself drawn to her lips once more. We kissed and I felt static and spiculum, the sort of throbbing, itching, ache that one might feel if their limbs fell asleep, but we were wide awake, and I drank the energy she poured into me, and let myself wander against her celestial, deity-like body, falling back into patterns I thought we had recklessly abandoned after the first round in hopes of some semblance of sleep, the sleep that never came, or did come, but in the form of absolute exhaustion when our desires to destroy, build, destroy each other tipped the scale and sank along with our depleting energy, only this time, I did not find myself with her legs wrapped around my neck like the noose I never wanted her to be, instead I found myself with her lips against my wrist, the wrist that could not feel, as she trailed my scar in pecks and whispered her own sweet nothings. In the past I have felt the pleasure of pain, but this was the opposite, being neither pleasure, nor pain, only nothingness, a hollow, vain act, albeit a selfless one. I let her kiss me where I could not feel her, and suddenly became aware of the vast emptiness that came with it, like the distance between any two stars, and I pulled away with tears in my eyes. She kissed the tears in my eyes, and I imagined the taste of salt, as I had previously imagined the feeling of her lips on a limb I could no longer register. She peppered my face in kisses in the same fashion and the feeling of proximity brought me back down to earth, where I finally felt the weight in my lids more than the weight of my own useless heart. The last glimpse I caught as my eyes fluttered between open and shut was the striking red of Chariot’s hair, and those eyes, those burning red eyes.


End file.
